


Namaste Bitches

by bohnem990



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yoga, M/M, Only Some People Play Hockey, Sports Agent Jonathan Toews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bohnem990/pseuds/bohnem990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s perfect for the white girls and dudebros!” Patrick says. Grins. Like he’s not a dudebro. Like he hasn’t walked around college towns in neon t-shirts with stupid slogans on them like ‘cinco por dos es igual a diez’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Namaste Bitches

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in June of 2015 with the intention of it becoming a full length fic. That clearly is not what happened here. This fic takes place after the 2015 season when they Hawks had just won the cup, because like I said.. I started writing and just.. got lazy after that. Come join me on [tumblr](http://chicago-runsonduncan.tumblr.com)!

"There is no chance in hell I am letting you put those on display." 

The 'those' Segs is referring to are neon colored racerback tank tops and wide armhole cut tanks that read 'Namaste, bitches'. Kaner is a fucking genius and the college kids coming home from school are going to eat this shit up. There are going to be pictures all over Tumblr of girls in these tank tops with combat boots and ombré hair. This is going to get so much hype for them. Not like they aren't already the most popular yoga studio in the Loop, sitting right between a Lululemon and a Starbucks. It's like white girl heaven and Segs best appreciate it. 

Besides, Erica thinks his idea is brilliant. 

“It’s perfect for the white girls and dudebros!” Patrick says. Grins. Like he’s not a dudebro. Like he hasn’t walked around college towns in neon t-shirts with stupid slogans on them like ‘cinco por dos es igual a diez’. 

Segs’ face twitches, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips, wifebeater and lululemon yogas speaking volumes to the face value of his pretentiousness. “You are a dudebro.” 

“You’re a dudebro.” 

“And how about we stop arguing about it, huh?” Brownie claps his hand down on Patrick’s shoulder, fingers pressing into the hollow where the ball kissed the socket. 

Brownie is the least white fuckboy of them all, hair slicked back and a beard that he wishes warranted caveman status. He looks pretty intense, but he teaches the prenatal and youth yoga classes at T Squared Yoga Ink. 

“You’ve got a class Peeksey,” Brownie tries to shove him down the hall and away from the display he's been arranging, hot pink tank tops folded perfectly. 

“Yeah, fine asshole,” Patrick concedes, not because he's giving up the non-argument argument, but because he really does have class. 

 

Patrick met Tyler Seguin in college. They had a physical therapy class together and ended up bonding over a mutual loss of hockey. When Patrick was seventeen he had a career ending wrist injury, something that would take him out of the game forever. College was never in his game plan, but it had to be then. Patrick had closed his eyes and pointed at a map, ended up picking Chicago. So he enrolled at DePaul and that’s where he met Segs, bonding in class over Tyler’s own shoulder injury that had taken him out of the game. Their shared love of yoga came much, much later. 

Patrick is setting his yoga mat out and slipping into his toe shoes from Lululemon, because in reality he's just as pretentious as Segs. The bluetooth setup has some sick Mediterranean music flowing from them that Brownie insists is good for calming the husbands of pregnant mothers. 

This is a beginner level class so Patrick doesn't have to do too much. There are a lot of downward dogs and side planks. The most complicated pose Patrick makes them do is the eagle pose. He keeps it easy as a marketing tactic so the latte drinking first time moms will come back once this session is over and start the intermediate class with him. It's then that he weeds them out, finds who doesn't share his love of yoga and works them so hard they either learn to love it or leave it. 

Patrick knows all his regulars. There's Monica who is a new Buddhist and really into karma. Amy who wears a power suit to work as a CEO and screams for no foam, soy, double espresso, dolce lattes but is the nicest woman ever when she's in her yoga clothes. And then there's Bryant who's super gay and super into Patrick. Or at least, he wants to be. Patrick is bisexual, but he says no thanks. 

Except who the holy hell is that. Who is that delicious piece of - okay, no, calm down Patrick. But he's turning around and his ass is massive in those yoga pants, Patrick just wants to grab him and squeeze, weigh it in his hands and press his thumbs into the space where his ass meets his thighs and stare for a little while. Patrick has found a new religion. 

He's speaking French into an earpiece, rapidfire as he sets his bag down and slips out of his shoes, ripping the plastic and Lululemon sticker off a yoga mat Patrick would bet the cost of that he just bought. 

Patrick catches the words 'Stanley', 'Saader' and a rushed 'Trade isn't going to happen, Brent.' in English as he clicks off the Bluetooth and tosses it in his bag. 

"I'm Patrick," Kaner announces, sticking his hand out with a blinding smile. "Haven't seen you in class before, what brings you to T Squared?"

"My friend Brent's wife comes here, Dayna. Started with the prenatal classes, but stayed for your classes." The man's voice is like honey, thick and syrupy with a drop of Canadian lisp at the end. Patrick loves it immediately. 

"Brent bullied me into coming. He says I'm too stressed out, but I blame him and Sid."

Patrick nods. He thinks he knows what's going on here. "I hope you end up loving yoga as much as I do! Take a seat, we'll get started soon.”

"I'm Jon," the man offers hurriedly as Patrick turns to walk back to the front of the room. He's blushing, ears red and biting his lip, sheepish. 

"Nice to meet you Jon." Patrick smiles to himself. This is going to be one hell of a class. 

 

And it is. He has no idea if Jon is as bad at yoga as he seems or if he's trying to give Bryant a run for his money. Patrick can tell Bryant right now to stop trying, Jon is always going to win that race with an ass like that. And the stupid overgrown beard he's sporting. 

Patrick has to correct the width between his feet on his downward dog, the dip in his hips on his side plank, and Jon can't balance for shit on his eagle pose. But Patrick lets that one slide because no one in this class is good at the eagle pose. 

After he cools them down and turns off Brownie's mood music, Patrick puts on his real shoes far slower than necessary. He wants to give everyone, but mostly Jon, a chance to leave so he can slink into the front office and cast woes on how deliciously attractive Jon is. 

But he doesn't leave. When Patrick has his shoes tied, he casts a glance around the room and holy fuck, Jon is standing by the door, leaning against the wall with his foot propped up and from here, Patrick can see that underneath that stupid worn Blackhawks shirt Jon probably has some serious abs going on. 

"I don't usually do this." 

Patrick raises an eyebrow at him. 

"Yoga!" Jon adds hastily, blushing deliciously again. "I'm more of a free weights until my muscles are screaming kind of guy. But Brent shoved your card at me and told me Dayna would know if I came so.." 

He scratches the back of his neck and kicks off the wall, shifting weight on his feet. Patrick grins. 

"It's cool, man. So how'd you like it?" 

"Yoga is hard," Jon breathes, frowns. 

"Only at first." Patrick tries to sound reassuring, but there's laughter in his voice, eyes bright. “Come back for another class, you’ll get the hang of it eventually. Maybe you’ll learn to love it.”

“I don’t know about loving it, but I’ll come back next week.”

 

Between that class and the next there are three comments about the name of the yoga studio. Patrick knows the exact amount because there’s a board in the office where he and Brownie like to tally the most outrageous responses Segs hands out. This week’s the winner goes to a potential new member who had actually laughed when she spotted the misspelling. Segs had not been pleased about that. Screaming from the office, he’d stomped to the front and leveled his gaze on the woman, muscular arms bulging against his chest. Needless to say, they had probably lost one potential new member. Segs doesn’t care, he likes to weed them out early. At least, that’s what he claims.

Six o’clock rolls around and Patrick stands up from his perch behind the front desk when the front door opens and Jon walks in. If it’s possible, he looks even more beautiful than he did last week, despite the dark circles under his eyes. 

“Patrick,” Jon smiles, setting down a manilla folder on the counter, devoid of the ear piece he’d been sporting last week. 

“It’s been a week, trades and all.” Jon laughed softly, his cheeks turning red when he realizes what he had said. “I uh, drafted some papers. Trying to get my mind off my guys..” 

His hands are steady as he presses the silver prongs on the folder open, wetting his lips and reaching in, grabbing a stack of papers from the folder. 

Brownie walks out from the office, a kale smoothie in his hand because he’s weird like that and Patrick has never understood the appeal of kale. “Jon, right? I’m Brownie,” Brownie asks, sticking his hand out. 

“Yeah,” Jon nods and shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you. 

Looking down, he remembers the papers in his hand and holds them out for Patrick. “I noticed Yoga Ink was spelled like writing ink and I’m a lawyer so, I ah, drafted you some papers to get that fixed.” 

Brownie laughs loudly like the asshole he is and Jon blanches, opening his mouth to respond to the laughter, but his chance is taken away by Segs storming his way out of the back office. 

“You’re Jon, huh?” Segs asks rhetorically, arms crossing against his chest, showing off his muscles and his tattoos. “Thought you’d draft us some papers like the fancy fucking lawyer you are, did you?” 

“Segs!” Patrick hisses at him, face coloring, trying in vain to stop Segs from continuing on his rampage. 

Segs turns to sneer at Patrick meanly before turning his attention back to Jon, giving him a once over. “Jonathan Toews, agent to the hockey gods.” Segs rolled his eyes. 

“Tyler Seguin, nice to fucking meet you. I own this lovely establishment, T Squared Yoga Ink.” Segs throws his arms out, gesturing to the space around him while showcasing the rest of his arm tattoos. “Ink, like tattoo ink, not writing ink. So you might be a hotshot outside of this mighty fucking fine establishment, but here, you are nothing and no one.” 

Laughing, a cackle resembling Cruella Deville that both Patrick and Brownie flinch from, Segs tears the papers from Jon’s fingers, ripping the entire stack down the middle and throwing them back at Jon. “Check yourself before you wreck yourself. And try thinking before you come into someone else’s business and insult them.” 

Jon stands shellshocked as Segs stomps away, Brownie trying to hold back a laugh as Pat wants to melt into the floor. 

“Patrick, lose your stupid crush right now! He is not worthy!” Segs yells from the office and yeah, Pat definitely wants to melt into the floor now. 

“If you wanna leave and never come back,” Pat swallows and gathers the nerve to peer up at Jon, “I’d understand.”

“No.” Jon squares his shoulders. “I came here to, ah, see you so.. I’ll see you in class.” 

Jon picks up and papers and sets them on the counter, walking down the hall to the yoga studio.

“Fuck me,” Patrick muttered. 

“Maybe he will,” Brownie grins around the straw in his stupid kale smoothie. 

Patrick hates both of them. So much.


End file.
